


half chameleon, half camouflage

by orphan_account



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man drops a stack of books on the bar in front of John, who stares, nonplussed. “These are the required textbooks for your classes this year. You might want to have a read through them—<i>Professor</i>.”</p>
<p>His expression pained, John makes to push the books away. “I can’t—” he starts. <i>Can’t be a role model to a group of impressionable kids. Can’t be a teacher when the thing I’m best at is killing people.</i></p>
<p>“Of course you can, Mr. Reese. I think all you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. Consider this another chance to do just that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	half chameleon, half camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> “ _I’m half chameleon, half camouflage, and wholly in love with you, though you’d never be able to see it._ ” - Jarod Kintz
> 
> I started this in August, so it’s been a bit of a long haul; I’d never written a fic longer than 3-4k before. (I’d also never written a fic that was completely AU. What am I doing?) A million thanks to Sky for the beta & for the encouraging words!

Had passersby been paying attention to the people around them—had they been a little less keen to get home after a long day at their nine-to-five—they might have noticed a rather curious exchange take place. As it is, however, the masses of people surging through the streets pass right by the man with the overlarge coat, the baggy pants, the wild, unshaven face, the tangle of dark hair streaked with silver. They don’t bat an eye as another man, tall and blond, dressed in a sharp grey suit and a patterned tie, appears out of thin air in the middle of the crowd. They don’t look twice when he pulls out of the throng of rush-hour foot traffic to sit down beside the beggar on the park bench.

Neither man acknowledges the other for a minute. They just sit, silent, watching London’s businesspeople hurry home to their families. The beggar pulls a bottle of cheap rye whisky from his pocket and takes a drink from it, steadfastly ignoring his uninvited seat-mate.

“I thought I might find you here,” the blond man says finally. There’s an easygoing smile in his voice. “The best place to hide is in plain sight.”

The other man just takes a second swig of whisky and tucks the bottle back into his coat.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

The beggar gives no indication that he’d wondered any such thing, but he doesn’t get up and leave; his visitor seems to take that to mean that he’s listening, because he continues talking.

“I have a job offer for you. Professor Carter’s taken leave to spend more time with her son, which means that we need a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I happen to know that you’re rather an expert in the subject.”

The beggar laughs, low and mirthless. “I think you have the wrong guy, Headmaster.”

“No, John,” the blond man says easily. “I don’t think I do.”

The beggar—John—finally turns his head to meet his visitor’s eye. “I don’t know what you think you know about me, Headmaster—”

“Believe me, John, I know enough to be sure that you’d be more than capable in this position. And please,” he adds, before John can speak again, “call me Nathan.”

“You been talking to friends in the Ministry?”

“Not about you,” Nathan says. He’s still smiling. “I have a friend who’s very good with research.”

John scoffs. “If you know who I am, then you should know that I don’t belong in front of a room full of children.”

“Why not?” Nathan asks, but John just glares. 

“Sorry, Headmaster,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. “I’ll have to turn down your offer.”

Nathan sighs. “Look, John. You need a job. I need a teacher. You’re highly skilled. You know more about defeating Dark wizards than most other people on this planet. What better way is there to protect the country than to teach its children how to fight back?”

“Some kids grow up bad no matter what you teach them. Doesn’t make a difference.”

“You’re wrong,” Nathan says, and for the first time there’s a cold undertone to his words. “It makes all the difference in the world.”

John doesn’t answer.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Nathan says, and stands up. He looks at John, but John looks away resolutely. Nathan opens his mouth—ready to make a final argument or perhaps just to bid John a good day—but changes his mind and closes it again.

No one notices when he straightens his tie, smiles sadly, and slips back into the crowd. No one notices when, a few seconds later, he’d disappeared as suddenly as he’d come.

When John Reese, looking unnervingly unruffled, refills his whisky with a casual tap of his wand beneath his coat and proceeds to chug half the bottle, everyone looks the other way.

*

John doesn’t change his mind or think much about the subject after Nathan leaves. For two weeks, John doesn’t think about much at all. The days pass in an intoxicated haze and it’s really a wonder that he’s still alive.

Truth be told, he probably wouldn’t have been for much longer if someone hadn’t intervened.

John abandons the street in favour of the Leaky Cauldron that night. “Firewhisky,” he grunts out at the bartender. “Keep ‘em coming.”

The burn feels good. Better than the Muggle-made stuff he’d become accustomed to, although he isn’t particularly picky. He’d never had much of a palate for finer things.

“The next one’s on me,” comes a voice from John’s left, and then the man who’d spoken is sitting down beside him, apparently unaware that he’d chosen the most volatile drinking companion in the pub. John should warn him off, but no one had come near him since he’d been accosted by the Hogwarts headmaster and he’s been feeling a bit deprived of human interaction. The deprivation is of his own design, of course, but he’s drunk enough to bend his rules tonight. He turns to look at the newcomer.

The man’s a few inches shorter than John. Probably in his fifties. Glasses. Dark, pinstriped dress robes. John had never seen the likes of them at Madam Malkin’s or Twilfitt and Tattings: tailor-made, then.

He wasn’t John’s usual type, but everyone looks hot when you’ve had enough so John leans in closer and offers the guy what he hopes is a charming smile.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m John.”

“You’re intoxicated,” the man replies dryly.

“You’re supposed to say what—who you are,” John slurs. “Your name. What’s—”

The man sighs and signals the bartender, who deposits another glass of Firewhisky in front of John with a nod at Mr. Bespoke.

“Drink this.”

“Thanks,” John says again, and flashes him another smile before downing the whole glass in one go. Beside him, Mr. Bespoke winces.

John savours the familiar burn, and then a different feeling creeps up his throat: a devastating cold that tears away the warmth of the alcohol.

The years of training must have seeped into his subconscious because John reaches out and pins the newcomer to the bar—fingers curled tightly, painfully around his arm—before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

“What did you do?” he asks, and his voice is whisper-quiet but his words are clear. He’s leaning in closer now, too close, invading the other man’s personal space. Mr. Bespoke’s discomfort is almost palpable but he doesn’t look surprised at his predicament.

“It’s not poison, if that’s what you’re wondering. I assure you, Mr. Reese, I have no wish to poison a man who is already willing and able to inflict that kind of damage on himself.”

The cold is eating away at the haze around John’s mind now: able to think more clearly than he has in weeks, he recognizes the truth in these words.

“It’s an antidote to the alcohol in your system,” Mr. Bespoke continues, confirming what John had suspected. “You’ve been drinking for quite long enough, Mr. Reese. It’s time to shape up. You have a job to do.”

“I quit my job,” John says harshly. He lets go of Mr. Bespoke’s arm and resumes a more casual pose, but his mouth is tense behind his unruly beard.

“I’m not talking about that job, Mr. Reese.”

John realizes what the man is referring to and groans. “Nathan Ingram sent you.”

Before he can make some kind of caustic comment about this, however, the cold strikes him again—a blow to the brain—and he’s cradling his head in his hands. John can and has withstood a significant amount of physical pain, but this is unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It feels like he’s being frozen from the inside out.

“Ah,” says Mr. Bespoke. He sounds apologetic. “I’ve never had much use for this particular potion myself, but I have heard that it can be quite painful if one’s blood alcohol level is particularly high. The cold should pass in a few minutes.”

John grimaces. He’s half-expecting the man to lecture him about the dangers of drinking but Mr. Bespoke just orders himself a bottle of Butterbeer and sips it quietly, eyes fixed anywhere but on John.

When the cold finally ebbs away, the resulting warmth is almost as nice as the Firewhisky had been.

John pushes his hair out of his face and turns to face the other man, prepared to argue with him, but discovers that his exasperation had faded along with the chill. He feels… deflated. Tired.

“What do you want?” he asks, wary.

Mr. Bespoke sits his bottle down on the counter and considers John’s question.

“I don’t like seeing talent go to waste,” he says, after a minute. “Nathan told me you thought that the idea of becoming a teacher was absurd. This is because you believe yourself to be dangerous.” He glances at John as if seeking confirmation or denial, and although John says nothing, it’s written plainly in his eyes. “I think that, given your recently-acquired pastime, you are currently more of a danger to yourself than you are to anyone else.”

John has no answer to that. He wishes he had a drink to distract himself with, but somehow he doesn’t think that Mr. Bespoke would allow it. 

“I came to give you these,” Mr. Bespoke continues, and then he’s pulling a stack of books out of his shoulder bag and dropping them on the bar in front of John.

John stares at the pile, nonplussed.

“They’re the required textbooks for your classes this year. You might want to have a read through them— _Professor_.”

His expression pained, John makes to push the books away. “I can’t—” he starts. _Can’t be a role model to a group of impressionable kids. Can’t be a teacher when the thing I’m best at is killing people. Can’t be a figure of authority if I don’t deserve respect._

“Of course you can, Mr. Reese. I think all you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. Consider this another chance to do just that.” And then Mr. Bespoke is standing up and buttoning his coat. Before he leaves, he turns back to John and sits an old brass key on top of the books. “I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room for the night. Upstairs, first door to your left. You’ll want to get cleaned up.” He pauses, his eyes fixed distastefully on John’s dirty coat, and then drops a handful of Galleons onto the pile, too. “Please do buy yourself some new robes: staff members have a certain standard to present. Have a good night, Mr. Reese.”

“Wait,” John says, and he’s about to ask a dozen questions that are suddenly on the tip of his tongue— _Who are you? What’s your name? Who do you work for?_ —but he hears the telltale crack of Disapparition from behind him and the man is gone.

*

John’s not sure why, but he takes the books and the key and the gold coins and stays the night at the Leaky Cauldron. He has a bath. He cuts his hair and shaves his beard. The next day, he wanders into Diagon Alley and buys a set of new black robes, along with a few white shirts.

Perhaps it’s because he’s got nothing better to do, or perhaps he’s just grown tired of wallowing in self-loathing, but the day after that, he packs up the books, tucks them into his pockets (they’re bigger on the inside), and Apparates into the streets of Hogsmeade. He can walk from there.

*

Nathan greets him with a beaming smile that John doesn’t reciprocate when he knocks on the open staffroom door.

“John!” he calls out, and he’s lounging in an armchair with the other teachers like he’s one of them. “Glad you could make it!”

And then John is being ushered into the room and he’s shaking two-dozen hands and trying to remember names, all the while keeping a polite smile on his face which he desperately hopes is concealing how utterly _baffled_ he feels.

It’s all the more surreal when he follows everyone else down the corridor to the Great Hall and sits down at the teachers’ table between the Astronomy professor and an empty seat. When the students come pouring in through the doors and fill the entire room and hundreds of people are looking up at him with curious faces. When Nathan introduces him as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and John has to _stand up_. When the food appears on the table and John realizes that he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in months. When, after dinner, Nathan shows him to a study— _his_ study, now—and leaves him to settle in. When the cacophony of the evening fades and John is left alone with silence and a single thought ringing through his mind: _What the hell am I doing here?_

*

John’s just got one class the next day: second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. It’s in the afternoon, so he spends the morning skimming through the relevant book from his pile. When he reaches the end and closes it again, however, he feels almost as helpless as he did before. It’s all stuff he knows, of course, but it’s just _theory_. What spells should he be teaching?

What spells are suitable to teach to twelve-year olds?

John ends up at a table in the library, desperately poring over books of spells, curses, and enchantments. He finds a dusty tome on dueling and perhaps that’s a good place to start. John figures that people of all ages should know how to handle themselves in a duel. The dueling book’s got a small list of basic defensive spells that seem age-appropriate; he dog-ears the page to mark it.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Before John can turn to the speaker, the book snaps itself shut on his fingers, hard. John pulls his hand back with a small hiss of surprise. “I forgot that these books bite you back.” He smiles apologetically upward, and the smile stretches into a grin when he sees Mr. Bespoke standing in front of him, dressed in tweed and a navy tie. “I was hoping I’d run into you again,” John says, conversational. “You owe me a name.”

“I fail to see how I owe you anything, Professor,” Mr. Bespoke answers, raising an eyebrow slightly, “but you can call me Mr. Finch.”

Seemingly satisfied that the book had done its job gnawing on John’s hand, Finch makes to leave again, crossing the library to a desk near the entrance.

John gathers up his books and follows.

“So this is where you work,” he says. He traces the nameplate at the front desk with an index finger. _H. Finch_. 

“Apparently.”

Finch lights the desk lamp with a tap of his wand and then turns to face a number of large boxes behind him with a frown.

“What’s in the boxes?” John asks. He doesn’t particularly care for the answer: he just wants to listen to Finch talk; maybe learn more about him.

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Hmm.” John’s about to try something else when Finch asks, “Don’t you have a class to be getting to, Professor?”

At this point, John’s not even the least bit surprised the man knows his schedule. He flashes Finch a smile. “You’re right,” he says. “But I’ll take these with me.” He hefts the stack of library books onto the counter; Finch signs them out for him and hands them back.

John continues to stand there at the front desk for a moment too long after that, as if waiting for Finch to say something—anything—else.

When Finch does, John’s completely taken aback.

“I’m glad to see you took my advice, regarding your attire.” He’s speaking quickly, as though he really hadn’t intended to say this at all, but somehow couldn’t stop the thought from rushing out. “Although,” he adds disapprovingly, his gaze falling to the hollow of John’s throat where he’d left the top two buttons of his shirt undone, “perhaps a tie would be a good idea.”

“Old habits,” John says easily, and for some inexplicable reason, he feels like he’s accomplished something here. He aims another disarming grin at the man behind the desk. “Have a nice day, Mr. Finch.”

When John saunters out of the library and off to his first class, he’s starting to feel like he might enjoy this job, after all.

*

His confidence falters a little once he gets to the classroom. Being the center of attention is something that, as an international spy, he’d spent years avoiding. The idea feels deeply disconcerting.

At the front of the as-yet-empty room, John writes his name on the board. _Professor Reese_. He looks at it dubiously, unconvinced, then erases it again and writes _Defence Against the Dark Arts, Yr. 2_. Unsure of what to do next, he sits down at the teacher’s desk and busies himself with the mandatory text as students begin to trickle in, chatting amongst themselves about their summer holidays and whatever morning class they’d just had. 

Elsewhere in the castle, a clock chimes the hour. John stands up.

Twenty small faces turn to fix him with wide-eyed stares.

“Er,” John says, trying out a hesitant smile. “Hi. I’m, uh… Reese.”

Starting with the roll call seems the obvious thing to do. John does his best to commit faces to memory, and names to faces. Everyone is present.

“Great,” he says. “Let’s just… get started, shall we?”

When he continues, it’s a little louder than before. “The ability to duel is… essential. It’s almost a guarantee that you’ll take part in one at some point in your life, whether it’s for recreational reasons, or because someone wants to kill you.”

To John’s surprise, a hand goes up. “Yes—uh, McGrady, right?”

“Yessir. I had a question, sir. If someone wants to kill you, why would they challenge you to a duel? Why not use… I dunno, poison? Why bother with all the bowing and stuff?”

“Well,” John starts slowly, considering this, “there are different ways of fighting. Honourable ways. Underhanded ways. If you’re lucky, you’ll only encounter the honourable kind—because that way, you have a chance to fight back. There are accounts of duels that have happened involving even the darkest of wizards… Gellert Grindelwald dueled Albus Dumbledore. Lord Voldemort dueled Harry Potter. The thing is, it feels more like winning if you do it while you look your enemy in the eye—rather than fighting them from the shadows.” _Like I did_.

“Have you ever dueled anyone that wanted to kill you, Professor?” a girl asks, looking awed. “Oh,” she adds, when he checks the roll call list. “Leila Smith, sir.”

John hesitates before answering. “I have, yeah.”

And then the questions come pouring in from all over the classroom. _Who? Where are they now? Did they go to Azkaban? Did you have to kill them? What did you used to do? Were you an Auror? Was it scary?_

John had forgotten how curious little kids were. With a small sigh, he holds up a hand. Everyone stops talking and stares at him expectantly.

“I was an Auror several years ago,” he admits. At the confused looks of some of the students, he adds, “that’s someone who catches dark wizards. After that, I, uh… had the kind of job you can’t talk about. And that,” he adds with finality, “is enough about me. It’s time to get to work.”

The class seems a little crushed for a minute until John has them all get up and stand to one side of the room. With a wave of his wand, he sends all the desks to the opposite wall, neatly stacked.

“Partner up,” he tells them. “We’re going to learn Disarming spells today.”

As it turns out, the second-years have never had a practical Defence class before—something about a Ministry policy that decreed that first year was too young. Or something. They’re thrilled at the prospect. Leila is the first to succeed, sending Darren McGrady’s wand flying into a suit of armour behind them with a noisy _clang_. (“I wasn’t paying attention,” Darren protests, “I wasn’t holding on very tight,” but the whole class claps for her and something like fondness swells painfully in John’s chest.)

At the end of the class, people are reluctant to pack up. “We’ll practice again next week,” John assures them. “For homework, you can, uh…” he thinks quickly of the book he’d skimmed through that morning, “read the chapter on how Shield charms work.” And then, because they’re all still standing there, looking at him: “Nice work today, everyone. I’ll see you all next week.”

The second-years finally move towards the door, some looking back at John and directing a small smile or a wave or a “have a nice week, Professor” at him on their way out.

After the last student disappears around the corner, John puts all the desks back and collapses into the chair at the front.

He stays there, unmoving, for a long time.

*

After dinner, John returns to his study and sits down on the bed in the small, connected suite. He feels… relieved. And the tiniest bit uplifted, if he’s honest. He’d always liked kids. They’re resilient, and smarter than people give them credit for. John had always felt fiercely protective of them; had even wondered what parenthood would be like, although it seemed unlikely in his line of work.

But he isn’t built to be a parent, or a teacher. Kids deserve to grow up around good people. People with functioning moral compasses.

And as much as John is certain of that, he’s also _here_. He has nowhere else to be. He has no home. He has no one left that cares about him. And maybe… maybe he can do some good here.

At the very least, he thinks he wants to try.

*

The chair to John’s right is still empty at breakfast, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion whose spot it is now, so he visits the library again when he’s finished his toast. He’s not sure why, but something about Finch intrigues him. The man is _interesting_ ; John’s positive of it.

School librarians don’t normally invest quite so much in their wardrobes—do they?

“Do you ever eat?”

John leans against the front desk and fixes Finch with a curious smile.

Finch looks as if he can’t quite believe that he has to put up with this so early in the morning. “I’m really quite busy, Professor,” he says stiffly.

“I don’t doubt that you are,” John agrees, “but even workaholics need to eat, Finch. I was going to bring you some pancakes, but I figured your library would try to curse me if I came anywhere near it with food.”

“Yes. I rather suspect it would.” Finch pauses, glancing up at John suspiciously. “Why do you care?”

“Can’t I take a casual interest in the health of a co-worker without having ulterior motives?”

“Can you? I’m not so sure.”

“Words wound, Finch,” John says. “So, are you going to tell me where you get your meals, or am I going to show up later with dinner and trip all of your alarms?”

Finch glares at him, but without much heat. “I visit the kitchen at odd hours. I find the crowds at regular meal times to be… off-putting.” And then he’s turned his back on John, a tacit but unmistakable indication that this particular discussion is over.

Fortunately for John, who isn’t quite ready to leave yet, Finch had unloaded the contents of the boxes he’d inquired about the day before. John figures that’s a whole new conversation.

“Computers?” John raises his eyebrows. He’d assumed, well… books. 

John’s mother had been Muggle-born and she’d kept a computer in the house while he was growing up, so John isn’t unfamiliar with them. He thinks that the computers here—three of them, set up against the wall behind the front desk, inaccessible by students—look a bit like old Mac computers, white and boxy. They’re not Mac computers, though. They’re not by any manufacturer John’s familiar with.

“Hogwarts is adopting Muggle technology?”

Finch scoffs. “It’s hardly Muggle technology, Professor. These computers don’t even require electricity to run.” When John continues to stare at him expectantly, he offers: “It’s the twenty-first century. It’s about time we moved past such inefficient methods of research.”

John smiles. “You’re the librarian, Finch. Aren’t you supposed to be advocating that we all we use books until the day we die?”

Finch gives him a disdainful look. “Books are very dear to me, Professor. As it happens, I’m a collector of rare first editions. But when it comes to research, there’s really nothing like the net.” He sits down at the first computer and turns it on.

John steps up close behind him, around the front desk.

“Must you do that?” Finch asks, a bit exasperated.

John just inspects the computer from over Finch’s shoulder, looking away exaggeratedly when Finch types in his password (long and meandering, although John doubts that Hogwarts is home to many accomplished hackers).

The logo underneath the monitor reads “IFT”. _IFT_. John had read about it from time to time in the Daily Prophet. They design and manufacture products that marry Muggle technology with magic. Nathan Ingram had founded the company. One of the reasons the software tycoon had been appointed Headmaster was because the school was trying to usher in a new, modern age.

“So what’s your role in this?”

“I’m just helping to set up the network,” Finch says vaguely.

“Hmm,” John says. And then, “I would have heard about it if the Ministry of Magic had installed a computer system.”

“I’m sure you would have, Professor. The Ministry does not, however, have access to such a system yet.”

“Why use it in a school library first?” John muses.

Finch continues to type and doesn’t answer.

John steps away from Finch’s chair. “I’ll be back,” he says, and drifts off towards the stacks.

“Don’t hurry,” Finch calls lightly after him, and John grins because it’s as close to teasing as he’s ever heard from the other man.

The library’s section on magical technology is small: it is, after all, quite a new field of study. John finds a few books that mention IFT in the jacket descriptions, along with a biography of Nathan Ingram. He picks up the biography; Nathan smiles charmingly up at him from the cover. _Smarmy bastard_. John brings the book back to the front of the library and sits it facedown on the desk.

Finch’s face is impassive as he checks the biography out for John. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find in here, Professor,” he says, but John rather thinks that Finch is avoiding his eye.

“Just reading up on the force behind the great innovations coming to our school,” he says innocently. “Have a good afternoon, Finch.” He pockets the book with a flourish and makes for the exit, Finch’s frown following him until he’s out of sight.

*

When John’s through with his last class of the day (he had had three, all of which went better than he had expected; John decides that his predecessor, Professor Carter, must have been quite proficient at her job as his older students are more adept at dueling than he’d been at their age) he retreats to his study to work on his self-assigned research project. Sprawling back in his chair, he puts his feet up on the desk and flips open Nathan’s biography.

It doesn’t take him very long to find what he’d _hoped_ he would find.

The information comes in the form of an old photograph. Two young men stand shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling at the camera. _Nathan Ingram and friend Harold Wren at IFT_ , reads the caption. With his broad shoulders and blond hair, young Nathan looks much the same as he does now, minus the lines in his face.

The second man—smaller than his friend in build and stature—is just as unmistakable.

“Hello, Finch,” John says aloud.

_What are you trying to hide?_

*

John has some free time before dinner after his last class on Friday, so he stops by the library to return the biography.

“I thought so,” he says, a bit smug, as soon as he’s at Finch’s desk.

Finch had moved one of the computers over, probably so that he could work on it and still survey the library without having to turn around. He doesn’t look up.

“Thought what, Professor?”

“That you worked for IFT.”

“You could merely have asked,” Finch says dryly. He adjusts his glasses on his nose, still focused intently on whatever’s on the screen in front of him.

“Would you have told me the truth?”

“Hmm,” Finch says, but it’s neither denial nor an affirmation.

“What if I asked you what you used to do there?”

“I was one of a couple dozen programmers.”

John raises his eyebrows at the admission, surprised that Finch had answered at all. Of course, there’s always the chance that the man is lying, but Finch doesn’t seem to lie to him outright. He just gives vague partial answers or avoids questions altogether. “And now?” John asks.

“And now, Professor,” Finch says, and looks John in the eye, “I am here upon Nathan’s request to set up an experimental computer system— _as you already know_.”

Finch begins to type rapidly, closing himself up again. Undeterred, John leans in closer across the desk, his chest pressing up against the back of the computer.

“You should take a break, Finch,” John says smoothly. “It’s almost dinnertime. I’m about to head over to the Great Hall—why don’t you join me?”

A small frown creases Finch’s forehead, but he looks more confused than annoyed at John’s suggestion. “No,” he says after a minute, “I don’t think so. And if Nathan set you up on this—this _crusade_ of yours, you can go ahead and tell him that it’s not going to work.”

“What crusade might that be?”

“This—” Finch waves a hand around, “—effort you seem to be making to…” He trails off, lost for words.

“To be friendly?” John finishes. “It’s not such an absurd concept— _Harold_. And no one put me up to it. I know you’re a very private person, but it’s not good to be alone all the time.”

There’s a pause in the conversation, the only sound that of a quill scratching against parchment at a table somewhere behind John. And then—

“I’ll have dinner later,” Finch says with finality.

There’s nothing John can do but leave.

*

As the weeks go by, John becomes more and more accustomed to waking up in the castle. In fact, he’s surprised to find that he’s come to rather enjoy teaching. 

For the most part, it’s his students that make the experience worthwhile. Leila Smith and Darren McGrady had rapidly stood out as the keenest learners in their year. Both kids had lost their parents at a young age, like John had lost his father, but instead of acting out like he had, they’re all the more determined to prove themselves. They also seem to be locked in a fierce—but friendly—competition with one another.

One of John’s most memorable days so far is the time he had ‘borrowed’ the Great Hall for his sixth-years to practice Stunning spells on moving targets. There had been an uneven number of students, so John had partnered up with one of the Slytherin girls, Theresa Whittaker. Theresa’s spell had hit John squarely in the chest from the opposite end of the hall, knocking him flat on his back. “Very… well done… Whittaker,” he’d wheezed from the floor, even as his students gathered around him, concerned.

Proud. That’s what he is. These kids can go far. They just need someone to help them to make the right choices. Or rather, to not make the wrong ones.

(Unfortunately for John, they also need someone to grade their papers. Since the perks of the job far outweigh the disadvantages, though, he figures he can’t complain too much.)

And then there’s Harold.

The librarian had unexpectedly become a bit friendlier after their exchange that first Friday afternoon. John suspects that Harold had had a chat with Nathan and determined that John had been telling the truth: he visits Harold because he wants to.

Harold is something of an enigma, and every piece of information John manages to glean from him feels like a prize. 

(Harold collects first editions of Muggle publications as well as magical publications.

Harold finds books and computers easier to understand than people.

Harold grew up in a small town without much to do, which contributed to his fascination with computers.

Harold’s real surname is neither Finch, nor Wren.

Harold’s cufflinks cost more than the entirety of John’s wardrobe.)

Perhaps most interesting of all, however, is what Harold does all day. ‘ _Helping to set up the network_ ’ indeed. As far as John can tell, Harold is single-handedly digitalizing the entire library and making it available on a network that runs parallel to the Muggle Internet.

As far as John can tell, Harold had created that network.

John will visit the library and, depending on the day, find Harold in one section or another, muttering some kind of complex spell under his breath. It seems to work a bit like a Pensieve, giving ideas a physical form and allowing them to be moved elsewhere for perusal at a later date. But the Internet had been built over years and years, with thousands, _millions_ of contributors adding information. Harold is building up this new network on his own, sifting through the facts and figures, making it searchable.

It’s really quite astounding.

“Do you want some help with that, Finch?” John asks, one particularly cold November morning.

Harold startles mid-incantation and closes his eyes, refocusing. “No,” he says distractedly. “No, I’m fine. Thank you, Professor. Don’t you have papers to grade?”

John ignores the question. “There are thousands of shelves, Finch. Tens of thousands of books. How come you’re doing this on your own? Shouldn’t IFT send you a team of IT guys or something?”

That Harold doesn’t answer only solidifies John’s theory.

Harold doesn’t trust anyone else to do this work because _he_ had designed it.

John continues to offers his assistance whenever Harold looks particularly overworked, but Harold turns him down politely every time.

John can hardly fault him for it. He knows well that there’s truth to old adage: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

*

A couple weeks before the start of Christmas break, John’s office up and disappears.

He arrives in the hall near Gryffindor Tower, arms laden with unmarked papers about Boggarts, and stops in his tracks. The door is gone. He wonders for a minute if it’s playing tricks on him—perhaps it had camouflaged itself against the wall, or moved around the corner—but neither the door nor the room is anywhere to be found.

“Rudiger Smoot,” John tells the stone gargoyles outside the Headmaster’s office, and they move aside. John climbs the steps and knocks loudly on the door.

“Huh,” Nathan says with a frown after John’s told him what happened. “I haven’t heard of a teacher’s office disappearing, not for years. I’m sorry about that, John. I can find you a new one, but your belongings are MIA for the time being.”

John, sitting at Nathan’s insistence in an overlarge, dragon leather chair across from the Headmaster’s desk, shrugs. “That’s fine. I don't have any belongings.”

That’s not entirely true, but since his belongings consist only of clothes and textbooks, they’re easily replaceable.

Nathan hands John a key and directs him to an unused study in the dungeons (“all the good ones are already taken,” he’d said apologetically). John’s on his way out the door, fingers wrapped around the handle, when Nathan calls after him.

“I appreciate you looking after Harold. I worry about him. I think—well, it’s good for him to have some company.”

John stiffens. “Harold is a good man,” he says, after a beat. “Have a good day, Headmaster.”

He swings open the door and disappears back down the stairs.

*

John can’t quite put his finger on why he prefers Harold’s company to Nathan’s. Nathan smiles easily, makes jokes, and has a sort of self-assurance that, John assumes, comes naturally. Harold, on the other hand, is prim and a bit irritable. He doesn’t seem to lack confidence, but he’s exceedingly modest. The man is brilliant. He just wouldn’t be the first person to tell you. 

Perhaps it’s simply that John has met dozens of men like Nathan before.

He’s never met anyone like Harold.

“You know, Harold,” John says to him, “you’re interesting.”

His new study in the dungeons is cold and gloomy, so John had relocated his marking to the library, papers spread out across a desk near Harold’s. He can’t believe he hadn’t thought to do this before now.

Harold glances over at him from behind his computer. “Hardly.”

“You’re the person I’ve spent the most time talking to over the past three months, and I still know less about you than I do about anyone else on staff,” John says, before adding: “Although I’m sure that’s by design.”

Harold half-smiles at that. “If you spent _less_ time talking to me, Professor, you’d probably get considerably more marking done. You’ve only finished grading four papers since you got here.”

“I know,” John says, and grimaces. The paperwork really is the worst part of the job.

He looks down at the essay at the top of the pile. He’d started reading it six times but still hadn’t made it to the bottom. He should probably—

“Gonna take a short break,” he tells Harold, and sprawls back in his chair, the picture of relaxation. He’d done all his buttons up that morning, but they feel a little suffocating now. John undoes one… two.

“Really, Professor,” Harold says, casting a disapproving look in John’s direction, which transforms into something like alarm when his gaze catches at John’s throat. His fingers stutter over the keyboard; John hears the distinctive _tap tap tap_ of the backspace key.

(Harold spends the majority of his time trying to fly beneath the radar. John notices him anyway.

What John hadn’t counted on was Harold noticing John, too.)

Pleased, John grins and undoes a third button.

*

The library closes at 8 PM; John watches as Harold approaches the remaining students one-by-one to let them know it’s time to leave.

“You gonna chase me off, too, Finch?” he asks, once the last straggler has gone.

“No,” Harold says. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish, Professor. However,” he adds, frowning, “you really should return your attention to your work. Your proclivity for procrastination is… problematic. I can’t imagine you get much sleep at night before you’re due to hand back an assignment?”

“You’re right,” John hedges, “I should really get to work.”

They both stay a while longer, working quietly on their respective projects until it grows quite dark. It’s around 11 PM when Harold gets up and bids John goodnight.

John watches him go and then, once Harold’s out of sight, gets up and follows him.

He’s not sure what compels him to do it. Curiosity, he supposes. He’s never seen Harold outside of the library before. Where _does_ he sleep?

John follows Harold down one hall. Two. But when he turns the third corner, Harold is absolutely nowhere to be seen.

*

John does the same the next night, and the night after that. He always makes it down a hall or two, but Harold always disappears.

Rather than feeling discouraged, John is all the more delighted by Mr. H. Finch.

Smiling to himself, he heads back to the library.

*

John corners Harold in the stacks when something occurs to him.

“Professor Ingram said when we first met that you’re very good with research. You _are_ the friend he was referring to, aren’t you? So, how did you find out about me?” He leans in close to Harold, forearm resting casually on a bookshelf.

Harold pauses in his work (which, this afternoon, is digitalizing the Contemporary Magic section of the library) to contemplate the question. He’s quiet for a minute, but John waits patiently; he knows better than to push too hard.

Finally, Harold says—slowly, carefully—, “I once built a tool for the Ministry that involved having access to a great deal of information. I no longer have access to that particular tool, nor to that information. And,” he adds, “if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate if you didn’t ask any more questions about it. People that do tend to end up dead.”

In a conversation between any two other people, the statement might have sounded overdramatic. But John thinks of Ordos and knows, somehow, instantly, that Harold is telling the truth.

He changes track.

“Would you like some help?”

“No, thank you, Professor,” Harold says, slipping back into their usual dance. Then he smiles. “Normally I’d take this opportunity to remind you of your own work, but with the holidays so close, I imagine that you have less to do today.”

This is true. John’s students had made exceptional progress so far this year, and he’d decided that they deserved a break. This meant that he had no plans to assign homework over the Christmas holidays, but also that he had begun to lessen the workload a week early.

“Oh,” comes Leila Smith’s voice from the end of the aisle. She grins at Harold and John, who instinctively straightens his back, standing up taller. “Hi, Professor Reese. Mr. Finch, I—um, I was hoping you could help me find a book. _A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_? It’s got to be around here somewhere, unless someone’s checked it out already?”

Harold smiles back at her. “Ah,” he says kindly, and looks up. “That one’s on the top shelf.”

Before he can get the book down for her, though, John steps up behind him—nearly pressing himself into Harold’s back—and retrieves it first. Harold stiffens visibly in front of him.

“I’m taller,” he explains, quirking his eyebrows, and hands the book to Leila, who giggles.

“Thank you, sir,” she says. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Finch, Professor Reese.” And then, with a little wave, she goes back down the aisle and turns the corner.

“Professor,” Harold says tersely, and John takes a step back, giving Harold some more space. The shelves are close together here; John’s heel hits the row of books behind him.

“I _can_ do magic,” Harold continues, and then he turns around to face John.

They’re standing about a foot and a half apart, Harold looking up at John indignantly.

“Of course you can,” John says. “But why use a Summoning charm when I’m right here? You might as well re-task some things to me; make me useful.”

He turns on his most charming smile, and maybe it’s the effect of that expression in such close quarters, or maybe it’s something he said, but Harold flushes, his cheeks turning bright pink. And his eyes—John thinks they’ve gone darker, but then Harold is wrenching his gaze away and speeding off down the aisle, leaving John standing there by himself, completely nonplussed.

*

That night, John breaks a habit.

Or rather, he modifies it slightly. For the past week he’d waited for Harold to leave the library before following him out, keeping a careful distance. John imagines that Harold knows he’s there, but he hasn’t said anything about it.

That night, John bids Harold goodnight and leaves the library first.

He doesn’t go back to his cold study, though. Instead, his feet take him to the hallway behind the library where he always loses Harold. One wall is blank, and there’s a sort of alcove in the other that houses an old suit of armour. John squishes in behind it and uses a charm to camouflage himself against the wall.

He waits.

John’s not sure how long he stands there. An hour? Two? It’s chilly in the corridors in the middle of the night and he hasn’t got his cloak; he shivers slightly.

He’s about to give up for the night when he hears soft footsteps at the end of the hall. Harold walks past John without looking in his direction, and, facing the blank wall, stops suddenly.

“It’s cold out tonight,” he says. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Professor?”

John blinks, stunned, but he lets the spell that’s shielding him fall away.

Harold, who still hasn’t so much as glanced at him, taps the wall and pushes open the door that has suddenly appeared.

Harold goes in. John follows.

Harold’s suite is small and warm and lined from floor to ceiling with books; John guesses that this is where the collection of first editions lives. The space he’s stepped into is a sort of sitting room, with a connected bedroom and kitchen. In the sitting room, Harold lights a fire in the fireplace and puts a kettle on. John takes his boots off and hovers near the door, feeling uncertain.

Finally, Harold turns to him, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well,” he says, “are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to sit down?” He gestures at the couch in front of the fire.

John sits down.

They’re both quiet as Harold makes tea—sencha green, John reads on the tin—and pours two large mugs. He hands one to John and sits down next to him on the couch. For a while, they do nothing but watch the fire crackle and hiss, enjoying the warmth.

“Is your curiosity sated, Professor?” Harold asks, once he’s halfway through his tea.

“Not entirely,” John says honestly.

“Go on.”

“I don’t have a lot of questions,” John says. “More… theories. For one, I’m pretty positive you designed that digitalization spell, _and_ the network you’ve been working on, by yourself. Which leads me to my second theory: that you significantly downplayed your role at IFT. Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised if you owned the company, or helped found it or something.”

“Very impressive, Professor,” Harold says. He looks over at John and then back at the fire, his expression unfathomable. 

“Not really,” John says with a small shrug. “Anyone who spent enough time around you would probably come to the same conclusions.”

“And now that you’ve arrived at these conclusions…?”

John frowns at him. “Now what?”

“That’s precisely what I’m asking. I can only assume that you’ve been spending your days at the library because I’ve been some sort of a challenge, some sort of a—a puzzle for you to solve. What will you do now that you have your answers?”

“Well, I don’t know, Harold. I’m sure you’ll find some new way to puzzle me tomorrow. After all, just this afternoon you all but ran away from me. I haven’t worked that one out yet.”

Well, okay. That isn’t quite true. John _does_ , in fact, have a theory about that; he just isn’t sure how to bring it up.

But— _Hell_ , he thinks. He might as well try.

“Anyway, I don’t spend my days at the library because you’re a challenge to work out. Although,” he adds as an afterthought, “I have to admit that I appreciate a challenge. So that was a bit of an added bonus.”

“Then why, Professor?” Harold says warily.

But John’s all out of words. They’ve never been his strong suit, anyway. He’ll have to try something else.

John reaches over and gently takes Harold’s mug from his hands, sitting it on the side table along with his own. “What are you—” Harold starts, but then John’s leaning closer and words fail him, too.

John moves slowly at first, trying not to startle Harold, giving him the chance to run away again.

Harold meets him halfway and then they’re kissing, desperate, two people long starved of touch, and John momentarily forgets the meaning of ‘slowly’.

Harold’s pressed into the corner of the couch where the back meets the armrest, John’s hands on either side of him, holding himself up so that his whole weight doesn’t fall on Harold.

When they pause for a moment to catch their breath, Harold takes the opportunity to make a weak protest. “John,” he says haltingly, “I don’t know if this is a good—”

“This is a great idea, Harold,” John murmurs, his voice low. “The best.” And then his mouth is on the soft skin at Harold’s neck and Harold is leaning his head back to give John better access, all protests forgotten.

“Should we…” Harold starts, when John’s hands find their way underneath his dress robes and start trying to push them off his shoulders.

“Here is good,” John says, and then they’re both standing beside the couch, fumbling with each others’ clothes until their robes have fallen to the floor and they’re left with just their shirts and boxers on.

“This will work for now.” John drags Harold back down onto the couch, and then he’s kissing his mouth, and then his neck, and then his ear, and then his mouth again, and he thinks he’s usually got more finesse than this, but he wants so much he can’t decide where to focus.

Harold stills him with gentle hands and kisses him chastely. “What do you want, John?” he asks.

“Anything,” he hears himself say, breathless. “Harold… anything…”

“You can have it,” Harold promises, and John wants to weep because knows he doesn’t deserve it, but Harold has given him so much. Harold has given him everything.

John clambers off the couch and sinks to his knees on the carpet, tugging Harold’s legs around so that his feet are on the floor. He pushes Harold’s knees apart and leans forward, nosing at his cock through his boxers. “Harold,” John breathes, “please. Let me—”

“Oh God,” Harold says faintly, and he eases back against the couch but doesn’t close his eyes. He’s looking down at John with a mix of fondness and awe and it’s altogether too much for John, who groans and pulls the remaining material out of the way.

*

John wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, and someone’s arm is… someone’s arm is draped over him, their fingers curled into his shirt. He stiffens instinctively, but he’s in full possession of his faculties. Not drugged, then. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and—

_Harold_.

Harold had invited him in. Harold hadn’t run. Harold had let him stay the night. 

John gently pulls out of Harold’s grasp and rolls over to face him; Harold mumbles in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. The top three buttons of his shirt had come undone the night before, and John can’t help it now: he kisses Harold’s collarbone.

And then underneath his chin.

And then his mouth.

Apparently Harold is already awake because he’s returning the pressure—

—and pulling away again.

“Much as I’d like this to go… somewhere,” he says, cheeks already a bit red, “I thought we’d go to breakfast first.”

“Breakfast?” John says, a bit dumbfounded. “What—here?”

“That is what you do every morning, is it not?”

“But you don’t.”

Harold gives a hesitant smile. “I thought that I’d… that I’d try something different. After all,” he babbles, “well, I did yesterday, and that went rather well, I would say, so perhaps—”

John laughs and kisses him again. 

*

_Epilogue_.

John watches as the students rush through the front doors of the castle, making sure that no one without a permission slip merges with the group headed to Hogsmeade for the day. They’re chattering away excitedly, eager to buy all sorts of treats—and tricks. (John’s supposed to confiscate those, but if he had deliberately turned a blind eye toward Darren McGrady’s pocketful of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder— _well_ , who would know?) They grin and wave when they pass him. He waves back. 

After the last few students have made it out, John joins the crowd for the walk, strolling along at a comfortable pace at the back of the group. Every so often, a few kids fall behind to talk to him: questions about the homework, comments on the last lesson, general inquiries about defensive spells.

They’re keen, this bunch. For the first time in years, John’s feeling a little bit of hope for the future.

He’s discussing methods of concealment with Theresa Whittaker when he’s dive-bombed by a parrot clutching a note in its beak. It drops the scrap of parchment into his outstretched hand and flies off again, a red streak against the azure sky. The younger students gasp and point until the bird disappears around a turret; John watches, too, eyebrows raised, and unfolds the note.

_John_ , it reads. _Meet me at the Three Broomsticks ASAP. We need to talk. —Nathan_

“Who sent that message?” Theresa asks him, glancing over at it with a small frown. Unlike the group of first-years in front of them, she seems unimpressed by the flashy delivery bird. John hides a smile.

“Someone who could do with a lesson on blending in."

*

When John gets to the tavern, Nathan practically tugs him through the door and over to a corner table. Harold’s settled into a chair there, reading the Daily Prophet. He looks over when John sits down beside him, his mouth turning up into a genuine smile.

“John. Glad you could make it.”

“Our esteemed headmaster made it sound rather urgent.” John leans forward, elbows on the table, left arm pressed against Harold’s right, and looks impassively at Nathan. “Well? What is it?”

“Really, John,” Nathan chides him. “Don’t you know?"

“I teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, Headmaster. Not Divination.”

“Don’t play coy with me—I refuse to believe that you don’t know what day it is.”

“Oh,” says John, who really hadn’t given it much thought before this very minute.

“Happy birthday,” Nathan says with a smile. He pulls a modest-looking box from the pocket of his overcoat and pushes it across the table to John.

“You could’ve just bought me a beer,” John says mildly, but he opens the box.

Inside, there’s… a tie. Dark blue silk, with small red stripes. John frowns down at it. He doesn’t really do ties. He _particularly_ doesn’t do ties with patterns on them.

“Come on, John,” Nathan says jovially, perhaps in response to John’s lack of excitement. “If you put it on now, maybe Harold’ll help you take it off later.”

Harold’s mouth drops open and he turns to give Nathan an indignant stare. John smirks. Harold needn’t have wasted the energy. After all, Nathan’s suggestion is… good. Great, even. John’s mind is suddenly full of ways that Harold could make good use of a tie that night.

He puts it on.

“You should have asked for my help,” Harold tells Nathan reproachfully when he’s regained his composure.

“I like to do some things on my own, you know. What’s wrong with the tie?”

“I’d’ve picked a different blue.”

“Why?”

“A lighter blue would…”

“Bring out John’s eyes?” Nathan finishes, his own eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m sorry, Harold. I haven’t quite memorized the colour yet.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Oh, no." Nathan waggles a finger in the direction of his friend. “That was definitely what you were about to say.”

John coughs slightly, interrupting their discussion. Harold shuffles the newspaper, looking embarrassed again. Nathan just grins innocently. 

“Anyway,” Harold says, changing the subject, “I have something for you too, John. I couldn’t think of anything overly expensive that you might want, so…” He trails off, digging a neatly wrapped rectangular package out of his bag and handing it to John.

From the shape and weight of it, John can tell immediately that the gift is a book. He peels off the paper wrapping and uncovers a large leather-bound journal. A puzzling choice. John runs a finger along the spine.

“It’s… beautiful, Harold. But I’m not really the kind of guy who keeps a diary.”

“It’s not for you to write in.”

Bemused, John lets the book fall open.

Someone else has already written in it. At least a hundred someones, in fact. The notebook is full of dozens and dozens of messages from John’s students. Little notes like, ‘Dear Professor Reese: thank you for everything you’ve taught us this year,’ to longer letters that span full pages. He flips through it; Leila Smith’s practically written him an essay. John feels his eyes tearing up and looks away, blinking in what he hopes is an inconspicuous manner.

“I thought… given your reluctance to accept your current position, you might appreciate some reassurance that you made a good decision.”

John wants to thank him but the words get caught in his throat; he swallows them down again. He still can’t look at Harold or Nathan.

Harold reaches out and covers John’s hand with his own, understanding.

“You two are so sweet,” Nathan says, standing up and clapping Harold affectionately on the shoulder. “I’m going to buy us some drinks. Try not to miss me too much.”

John and Harold sit quietly for a minute, their hands still touching.

“I know that this wasn’t where you expected to end up,” Harold says finally. “If you still have doubts about being here—”

“It’s fine,” John manages. "Harold..." He turns his hand over so that his palm faces upward beneath Harold’s and laces their fingers together, holding on tightly as if to a lifeline. He meets Harold's eye now. "Thanks.”

There’s no place he’d rather be.


End file.
